The Journal of Archivist Reiss

[Matra Hammer]

From the Journal of Arvin Reiss, Senior Archivist of Pinewood Academy

~*~

This is my fifth day on assignment in the Northern village of Yew. Headmaster Kenneth received my census draft and an early robin returned his insistence on investigating the village?s history. I do not see the worth in studying this particular village, or why he sent me instead of a page, but it?s not my place to judge the Headmaster?s direction. Besides, I should welcome the excuse to stay in Mossflower. I?ve missed these woods more than I care to admit.

But another project keeps my interest. There?s a danger in writing my idea down ? in making it real ? but I must make the most of this phenomenon. On my first night in Yew I dreamt of a band of beasts in the thick of danger. Through their eyes I?ve seen ghastly sights: the spirits of the dead, beasts crushed beneath boulders, and, worst of all, a toad. Sometimes I am the toad, or an otter, or a cat. Through their eyes I watch this small band roam the wilderness, though I can't imagine why I see them at all. It seems I?ve no choice in the matter either. It?s much like wearing a coat with a button stuck. Try as I might I cannot push the visions aside or let them know I?m watching, and the more I struggle the tighter their skin clings.

Fantasy and folly was my first reaction, but these beasts exist. In one vision I spied Yew?s insignia printed on a coat. After interviewing one of the local guards I found the guards I?ve seen are still in active service. This coincidence is too striking to ignore, especially since I know nothing of these beasts or this village. The guard will not comment on their nature or where they?ve gone, but I?ll find out in time.
For their sake, and mine, I?ve decided to record the visions as they come and provide commentary.
Hopefully it?ll help any survivor puzzle out the hardships we've they?ve endured.
...if any of them return.

Mrs. Reiss has sided with the locals and labeled me senile over this project. All in jest, she assures, but it?s disheartening when your own wife will not side with you. Besides, three-and-thirty is not the age for senility. They assume too much of my white fur, though my profession certainly doesn?t scream of youth either. Oh well. Beasts will see what they will regardless of the evidence.

Tonight I will start recording these dreams.
Perhaps I?ll discover some details that will convince the guard of what I see.
Perhaps these are imagined hardships on real beasts. Part of me hopes this is true. I would not wish their trials on any enemy.

- A.P. Reiss
Senior Archivist

[Nyika]

This is the cutest thing I've ever seen.

[TNT]

This is so great! Do you plan on writing more of this?

[Matra Hammer]

I'm glad you two approve. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

I do plan on continuing. Instead of a traditional review thread I'm going to have Archivist Reiss post journal entries here in response to each story post (his "visions".) It'll be a new way for our wonderful writers to consider their characters/progress and I'll have a bit of fun building Reiss and his life in Yew.

I'll wave the non-canon flag now. One because I don't know squat about Yew and I'll end up fudging details to build Reiss' world. Two because who knows what you crafty fellows have in store. Yew may implode! Or you could all pull a Dallas...

Whatever happens I hope ya'll enjoy.

[Matra Hammer]

Regarding Frozen Flame

From the Journal of Arvin Reiss, Senior Archivist of Pinewood Academy

~*~

The streets of Whitehall weren't so kind. Growing up I couldn't make my way to or from the dockside market without catching a withered apple or a clot of dirt to the side of the head. Most beasts - dock rats and "respectable" merchants alike - labeled me as a freak for my coloration. The "Wight of Whitehall" they called me. Those beasts I could tolerate. At least I knew to avoid those who mocked openly. It was coming home that hurt the most. My sweet sister or her little wharf tagalongs who smiled with their muzzles and judged with their eyes.

There was never any backlash from me. Patience is my one gift, and it saw me through the early years until I escaped the coast. But with these visions I wonder whether or not my gift is a blessing or a curse. After a night behind the feline's eyes I'm no longer sure.

What drives a beast to violence? Is violence ever justified?
These are the questions I'm left with after last night's vision.

For the seer it's an instance of mockery that loosed her claws; an instance of ridicule on the back of her companion nearly drowning. Her ire grows as her targets fire back. The near-drowned otter is insincere, his rescuer too frank, the leader marten savage in her striking, and so on. But what changed for the seer? Why choose now to bear all of her fangs? My earlier visions of the feline weren't so clear, but she's faced the same brand of antagonizing for most of their ordeal. Never so blunt or brutal, yet up until now she's remained mostly docile.

And I would think a plunge into freezing water would subdue anybeast's anger. I'm not one for swimming in any temperature so I wouldn't know. Perhaps I'll pass a Yew stripling a few acorns and run some tests.

Mrs. Reiss offered that "stress is a building block without edges. You stack one, then two, then oops! You try again and maybe more stay up, maybe less. You can't predict how many blocks it'll take before it all falls away." Indeed. The whole lot of them are cold and hungry and fearful for their futures. These are heavy blocks on their own, but the feline carries the weight of her young age, the spirits of the dead, and the secrets of her companions as well. I can't imagine you can make any stable structure with blocks so plentiful and smooth.

Still, I fear for the seer. Those about her will not be so understanding as Mrs. Reiss. She will reap those seeds of spite, and there may not be any paws pulling her from the water next time. For her sake I hope she comes to know balance and forgiveness before any retaliation comes...or that it isn't the toad who strikes back first. His response to the seer's "crystal ball" was the most worrying of all. Disgusting creatures, toads. With no shame or second thought he'll swallow her whole, or poison her, or take over her mind, or do whatever it is those slimy wretches are capable of.

Whatever the outcome this vision forever justifies me in abstaining from fathering a child. Even near-grown beasts like the seer are as wicked and unpredictable as toads.

Speaking of which, my dear wife calls from the yard for my assistance.
No doubt to help her store another shipment of local wine she'll spend all night "cataloging."

- A. P. Reiss
Senior Archivist

[Matra Hammer]

Regarding The Righteous and the Wicked

From the Journal of Arvin Reiss, Senior Archivist of Pinewood Academy

~*~

Sipping the dregs of old, reheated burdock tea. In that moment when the sludge hits your tongue all of your senses turn to the wretched taste. It's a brand of savage focus where, in those brief seconds, nothing else in the world matters besides ridding yourself of the sensation. There's no "maybe a bit of sugar can save this" or "maybe another minute on the stove will help." There's only you, the awful tea, and the all-consuming impulse to be away from the foul liquid.

Imagine if that impulse was everlasting; that the world is your bitter tea and that you must fight the mess with your every waking breath. This is what wearing a toad's skin is like. Every beast around Greenflicker is a grain in the swirl of his cold tea mug. Yes, the creature is capable of an approximation of patience, understanding, and all the traits of heroes and saints, but behind it all there's only the toad and his disgust.

Even the beasts Grandfleck somewhat respects are little more than potential weapons to cut down those around him. He bonds with the fanatic, tattooed otter over ancient beliefs but only as a means of submission: to make his own path smoother. Even on scheming with the marteness there's a brief conflict between respect and irritation before the bitterness takes hold and she's labeled as nothing more than a tool.

I regret the anti-toad remarks from my previous entry for now my distaste comes off as prejudice. Not all toads are foul, mud-sucking blots on fair Mossflower. In truth my comments stemmed from a toad highwaybeast that accosted my wife and I enroute to Yew. He claimed he was collecting road tolls for Redwall Abbey's newest library. I seriously doubt anybeast associated with Redwall would point a loaded crossbow at an unarmed stranger. Or would they...?

My night sight isn't too strong, but I could sense no remorse or true empathy within the toad. No true sense of his goals either, beyond collecting and sharpening his "tools." What is he after besides safety and secrecy? Passage to Carrigul, sure, but what awaits him there? What's at stake? All I sense is the well-honed anger of a beast set apart from the world around him.

Previous commentary aside...Greenflake will bring ruin on each and every beast. The seer may have sewn tension between all the party members, but he will work the soil to his benefit. Yes, it's very fortunate for his "companions" that he needs them to return to the civilization.

By the stars my head aches. It's already noon and I've yet to begin today's interviews. A rather peevish barber surgeon from across town has a few words to share on tribal conflicts that predated Yew. I'm not sure if I have the patience for him today. Perhaps I'll send Mrs. Reiss in my stead and spend the morning "researching" in my study.

...good graces. The Grainfleck is rubbing off on me.

- A. P. Reiss
Senior Archivist

[Matra Hammer]

Regarding In My Time of Dying, In the Evening, In the Light

From the Journal of Arvin Reiss, Senior Archivist of Pinewood Academy

~*~

This entry is long in coming but I think I can manage without too much strain. Even days later I jump at any sudden noise after spending a night behind the ferret's eyes. I shook throughout my vision of Risk the Cutter, but rightfully so. As dawn broke after that night Mrs. Reiss woke me with the water set aside for morning tea. Even awake, and soaked, I could not keep from shaking, nor could I explain myself properly to Diana.

By the way her tail dips I can tell her patience is thinning to translucence. Perhaps I'll ask about Yew for a box of honeycomb pieces. Those were her favorite. There's the memory of us sharing a box outside of Castle Romindan's walls, hiding from our respective prefects in the bows of ironwood trees, discussing everything and nothing. This vision has left me wanting those days again; wanting a simpler time...perhaps I'll schedule a picnic for tomorrow. I must try. If I'm to take anything from living through the cutter it's to cherish your loved ones while you can. Would she even use the word lo

There's a pattern in these visions. In my first entry a young seer took to the offensive and showed her color, but it played much like a wildfire through a hay field. Next came the toad who was all thought and care in his treachery, but nothing besides greed backed his motives. Then I joined the killer and saw a creature whose every deed rang with purpose. Though he remained calm and direct on the outside - save the bloody end - I suffered with him as he battled on against himself within. From the struggle in revealing his place in the seer's life, to accepting his fate as a dying beast, to inflicting the savagery of a beast who considers itself all but lost...

Even in my homeland, a half a world away, there are tales of the cutter. Tavern whispers of deeds too foul for ink, and outpost gossip fit for frightening children and cowards into line. Herein lies the pattern. If I could have forced myself awake I would have at recognizing "Cookie" for what he was is "wis." Again, prejudice raised it's snout and demanded I flee. But in staying I saw the fireside revelations, and felt the purpose behind Risk's assault on the mole stronghold. On stepping back I realize those parts of the vision and the little moments - like the mercy of removing liquorice bits from the candy jar - made this killer civilized enough for sympathy.

But there was simply too much for me to handle at once. There lies the root of my shaking. I don't think my mind was ready for the shock of relating with a nefarious beast on a rampage. The vision ended abruptly, with every leading moment pointing towards death, yet I find myself hoping that his companions will swallow their own prejudice and rescue him. Or that, by some miracle, he finds some sense and turns away. An impossibility, I think, given the injuries he sustained but my hope remains.

Yes, there was too much to digest but I've come around after some distance. Even the memory of choking the life from a young mole no longer sets my tail a-coil.

...

Perhaps I'm not so stable as I thought.

- A.P. Reiss
Senior Archivist